


Better and New

by ExploretheEcccentricities



Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Angst, Blood and Gore, Clementine and Kai don't really have speaking roles, Disability, F/M, Gen, Happy ending (-ish), Hurt/Comfort, Implied mental illness, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Machines, Maiming, Manipulation, Memory Loss, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Saporians - Freeform, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Some Cursing, Song: Decay Incantation | Hurt Incantation (Disney), Symbolism, Team Armless (if you read this on discord you get it), Torture, Toxic Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, Varian's POV, Whipping, child grooming, creepy themes, long story, so much gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:53:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29388006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExploretheEcccentricities/pseuds/ExploretheEcccentricities
Summary: The boy peers curiously at the two faces behind the bars.
Relationships: Andrew | Hubert & Varian (Disney: Tangled), Eugene Fitzherbert | Flynn Rider & Rapunzel, Eugene Fitzherbert | Flynn Rider & Varian, Rapunzel & Varian (Disney)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	Better and New

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this on the Scar Varian Server (on Discord) a while ago! It's a bit long.
> 
> It takes place during RR. Both Rapunzel and Eugene try sneaking into the palace and are captured by Varian and the Saporians. However, something seems to be off the moment they try talking to their old friend. Varian's POV.
> 
> Please read the tags! There is a lot of gore and torture, both explicit and implied!

They have beautiful faces, he notices, unmarred by the scars of time and untarnished by the whims of suffering. They glow a healthy pink in the dim slivers of light trickling from the barred window, their eyes brighter than the stars that silently speckled the blanket of darkness outside.

A bit  _ too _ beautiful.

While most retreat to the darkness, embrace how it encompasses and covers and protects them, these fools fight it, fight to be shone and seen among and above it.

And the black ink of the sky and up the walls and in the bars that separate them and from the eyes of the boy who silently watches them knows better than to let them be.

“Varian.” The golden-haired one speaks first in a low, disappointed hiss, escalating with accusation as she inches closer to where he stares silently, hands clenched into fists at her side and neck bowing slightly to look directly into his empty eyes. “ _ How _ could you do this?”

Who was Varian? Was... _ he _ Varian?

He doesn't like being yelled at...he  _ shouldn't _ be yelled at, not  _ anymore _ . Was he doing something wrong? He blinks back emptily, unassumingly at the frowning, clearly unhappy individuals behind the very bars he had rot for a year, his brow slightly furrowed as he struggles to comprehend  _ why _ she is yelling at him,  _ why _ she is angry with him,  _ what _ she demands of him. He...he thinks he remembers knowing them-he can already feel the ice-like shard of contempt broiling and sinking in his gut the more his eyes follow their aggravated movements and distressed speech. He doesn't like these people....they must have been the ones who hurt him, way back then, in ways too horrible to even remember...Brother had told him to prepare himself if he  _ did _ remember. These people didn't deserve him...they were the reason he felt the sharp pain shooting up his side as he twisted and turned in his sleep, the breathless hitch in his voice as he woke up to the stiff and unrelenting soreness flaring through his back, the nights he would suddenly be hit with an overwhelming yet unprecedented urge to weep.These people...these beautiful, glowing, ugly,  _ otherworldly _ people... had somehow, in someway, hurt him somewhere in a time not long ago, in a world not too different from this one...and he needn't bother himself with the details. He...he really  _ shouldn't _ .

Upon his unwavering, empty stare, the rage and conviction in the girl's eyes flickers with the first shades of doubt.

“I asked you a question,  _ Varian _ .” She spits out with more contempt than before.

He still doesn’t answer. Why should he? He didn’t know what she was asking! And what if he gave her the  _ wrong _ answer? What if he made things worse without knowing it? Did... _ should _ he give her an answer?

“Varian?” The one with the smooth goatee questions cautiously-hey, that almost looked like  _ his _ !

The boy absentmindedly strokes the area where he knows his goatee is, only to find the smooth skin taut under his thumb. He then reaches through the bars hesitantly, as though wading his hand in water too deep to tread, gauging their murky depth with experimental slowness. The man's eyes widen slightly, flitting between the boy's curious stare and his outstretched hand, his shoulders flinching back but his legs glued to the spot. The man's lips open, choosing then to close when they are unable to form words.

The boy's thumb finds the small tuft of hair at the man's chin, finger hooking underneath it as he squints in scrutiny. The coarse hair brushes against his nail, irritable to the touch and so unlike his own. The boy scowls in clear disappointment, quickly withdrawing his hand and rubbing it one lapel of his coat. He had the better goatee, anyway.

Suddenly, a large yet familiar pair of palms press against his shoulders, the fingers clasping tightly at the bone and the warm presence a soothing balm to the boy's quickly heightened distress. Brother’s kind eyes gaze down at him, an eerie yet unfazed twinkle in an otherwise plain and unscarred blackness.

“Are they bothering you, buddy?” He asks quietly.

Brother’s eyes flit over to where the goatee-man and the girl stare back dumbfounded, first at each other and then at the duo before them. The girl recovers quicker, shaking her head and practically gawking at them as her eyes narrow. 

“I- _ Varian _ , tell them to let us go!” She demands then, her voice growing louder and shriller with each syllable, laden with impatience and frustration.

Brother tuts with far more patience, practiced and charismatic as he leans down and gently balances his pointed chin at the boy’s temple, a careful weight as the boy stares back at the golden girl cluelessly. “So much tongue, and not enough taste. Am I correct, buddy?” He gently pats at the boy’s shoulder to get his attention, and the boy nearly jolts out of his wistful stupor, the touch grounding as he shakily, dutifully nods. It is instinct, it is right, it is… _ easy _ .

Brother then fondly tucks a strand of the boy's hair behind his small ear, pouting at the slow suspicion knitting its ways into the imprisoned man’s tightened lips and furrowed brow. “Oh, don’t you worry, buddy.” Brother’s pointer finger, always certain of its path, quietly finds its way under the boy’s chin and lifts his eyes to look up at him. “You have a  _ far _ better goatee.” 

Brother’s lips twist into a wide grin, baring his sharp, pearly, orderly teeth. A strange, warm spike of elation rouses in the boy’s chest at having felt so specially and specifically praised, and he allows a hesitant smile back, nodding along. Brother wanted him to be happy. Brother was doing this to make  _ him _ feel happy and safe. Brother had always only ever wanted him to be happy and safe, and so he would happily go along with it, show Brother how happy he was in the  new family he had and the caused they served together.

“ _ Don’t touch him _ .” The bad-goatee man interrupts, his eyes locked accusingly on Brother.

The cold tone snatches the rare yet comfortable moment away, replacing it with the sheer, unfeeling, lifeless steel of his voice and seizing Brother’s eyes away from the boy. The boy blinks, the cold and unwelcome dread at the pit of his stomach returning.

How-how  _ dare _ he? How  _ dare _ the man distract Brother’s attention away from him? How dare the man interrupt his brother, while  _ he _ was the one behind bars and at  _ their _ mercy no less? How  _ dare _ the man make Brother upset? How  _ dare _ the man look at his dear friend with such impudent scrutiny, after what he had done? How dare the man even  _ try _ to tell his all-knowing Brother what to do?

Brother stares back at the man undaunted and unfazed, raising his brow and sharing a conspiratorial smirk with the boy before donning the mask he presents to everyone else. The boy revels in whatever Brother gives and shares, greedily consumes every crumb of affection because Brother is  _ special _ , and if Brother is doing anything with him, it  _ must _ mean  _ he _ is special by extension. “Why?” Brother challenges the man without a trace of annoyance in his voice. Brother has always been brave and patient and-and  _ strong _ like that…Brother is a boulder that shielded the boy from the pelting stones, Brother is an eagle that raised him high above the vultures. “ _ You _ are in no position to demand anything.”

The boy’s confident smile instantly fades, the small bounce in his toes and the eager clench of his hands from the former anticipation at seeing Brother beat someone down vanishing instantly. The words are- _ too _ familiar…even moreso than Brother’s usual words are. They are familiar but no longer comforting or grounding or enlightening, as familiar things are...as familiar things  _ should _ be. They echo and ring somewhere in the back of his mind, numb and distant and muffled as though every other thought is a viscous fluid desperately trying to surround and drown it out.  _ "You are in no position to demand anything." _

“Listen,  _ Andrew _ .” The girl grinds out irritatedly, the beginnings of the unmasked and helpless alarm glistening in her eyes beginning to bleed their way into her voice despite how she desperately tries to hold up her facade. “I don’t know what you and Varian are playing at, but it’s  _ not _ funny. You’re about to hurt innocent people.” Her emerald green eyes turn to sharply glare at the boy's-and they hammer something anew into the boy's unsuspecting chest, his heart leaping in his throat at the relentless accusation and vexation. " _ Innocent _ people who have done  _ nothing _ to you." The boy doesn't hear her words. Was he-was  _ he _ responsible for the anger in those eyes? Was he to blame for the doubtless strings of insults and beratements and beatings being conjured and crafted behind those...familiar... _ familiar _ eyes? The very sensation yanks abruptly at him and his carefully constructed, collected countenance with the want to shrink as small as he could, sink back into his feet and out of sight.

Unwarranted tears flood the boy’s eyes-he doesn’t know  _ why _ . He and Brother had been practicing-they had been practicing for so  _ long _ . Why- _ why _ did he suddenly feel this  _ awful _ ? He violently swallows away the urge to sob aloud and apologize instinctively…none of the others had talked to him this way before, not in a  _ long _ time. Brother had  _ warned _ him, countless times in fact, not to listen to what they say…and the boy had been  _ good _ at it. He  _ had _ . Brother had  _ praised _ him for it, and yet here he was,  _ failing _ ... _ failing _ at keeping himself together, failing at understanding  _ why _ -

“Oh, hey...  _ buddy _ .” Brother coos, his voice lowering into a whisper for him,  _ only for him _ . Brother’s familiar arms encompass him in a rare yet treasured embrace, his palm running up his scalp and fingers curling into his locks. The boy only manages to capture one glimpse of the golden girl and the bad-goatee man’s bewildered faces before his face is turned and pressed against Brother’s familiar chest. The boy ignores how the man uncomfortably stiffens when he reluctantly wraps his arms around his waist in turn, wishing to relish in the warmth and closeness for as much as the man will allow. The boy is much more used to Brother kneeling to his level, picking him off the floor and brushing his shirt off, Brother rearranging the twisted limbs or wiping off the blood or straightening the broken nose, Brother sifting and shifting his limp body in a secure cradle of arms as he carried him through empty hallways and past empty eyes, as Brother whispers and coos and promises through the sobs that didn’t feel like the boy's own, the whimpers and cries and groans of pain that  _ never _ sounded like his own.

“You have some nerve, talking to my buddy like that.” Brother hisses, letting him go and steering him close enough to be touched again yet far enough to be comfortable. He then nudges the boy’s slumped shoulder suggestively, each smirk and wink offered in his direction imbuing him with a quick slight of confidence that straightens his shoulders and returns a shaky smile to his formerly trembling lips. “What do you say we teach these lucky fellows how to respect their superiors?” He pats the boy on the back, keeping his hand firm and ever-present on his upper back as he carefully opens the door and allows them both in. “They ought to learn a thing or two from the  _ master _ .” He then unsheathes his sword and unbuckles the shackles clanking at his belt, pulling at the boy's hand to press them into the boy's palm and pushing him forward gently to stand in front of the imprisoned duo, who stand in defensive positions.

Brother raises his sword towards them threateningly, and the boy smirks, flooded with a cathartic sense of power and satisfaction at seeing their once cruel faces now agape with shock and helplessness. The look fades from the girl quicker, and her hands rapidly fly to where her humongous braid of hair is tied, clearly intending to unleash and use it. The boy's eyes narrow on instinct, his own fingers flying to two balls on his alchemy belt and flinging them at a safe distance in her direction.

The girl gasps and tries to back away, only to trip from a loose strand of her incredibly long hair and fall on her front. Her hands fall out to brace her fall, only to be trapped in the unrelenting goo of the boy’s alchemy, leaving her to tug uselessly at where her palms remain flat on the dirty dungeon floor with her arms bent uncomfortably relative to the rest of her body. Her knees scramble to hold her up.

“Rapunzel!” The bad-goatee man yells out in alarm, rushing towards her. The boy swiftly, emotionlessly repeats his action, feeling power emanating from his very fingertips as his foe crumbles to the ground with the force of his throw and yanks at his cemented hands.

_ Rapunzel _ -so  _ that _ was her name. The name imbues him with a familiar yet fleeting feeling of despair, of utter and crushing hopelessness, the tendrils of an ancient yet powerful sensation curling its tendrils under the weight on his chest and slowly shifting it up his throat.  _ Rapunzel _ -it incites a vile, metallic taste at the back of his throat to the tip of his tongue, a gag.  _ Rapunzel _ . He remembers the slivers of the name as he experiments the taste of it on his tongue, the echoes and whispers and singing tone it carries through cracked shards and looming bars of his dreams as they sift through his mind, littered with accusatory glares and empty yet kind words and some... _ some _ kind of promise.

“Perfect as always, buddy.” Brother praises proudly, clapping him loudly on the back. The clap rings in the boy’s ears, louder and clearer than any of the jumbles of half-strung thoughts and concerns. He leans in closer, his eyes narrowed and focused seriously on his own in a silent bid for attention. “It’s what they deserve, after all they’ve done to you.”

The boy nods dutifully, his fragmented rush of thoughts trying to weave themselves together into something comprehensible as his heart twinges with the barest bits of sympathy for their visible struggles and grunts of effort.

“Va- _Buddy_.” Brother’s sharp voice jolts him in impatience, before being honeyed by something fond and familiar as he claps his hands to secure his attention. “Buddy, it’s _quiz_ _time_!” The boy instantly perks up, shaken out of his thoughts and donning a true smile. He loved quiz time! He was _excellent_ at quiz time! Brother was _always_ impressed with his ability to _crush_ quiz time like no one else. He _always_ gave the right answers, the answers Brother wanted. Why, it was a simple quiz time game that had led Brother to allowing him his alchemy set! He could impress these...these disapproving _criminals_ with his vast knowledge. "Alright." Brother begins at having seen he caught his attention, and the boy's eyes remain locked eagerly on him, heels nearly bouncing with anticipation as he doesn't notice the bad-goatee man's troubled expression.

“Now, I know this might be alittle uncomfortable for you." Brother begins ever so cautiously, eyes studying his own. "-but do you happen to remember any deserving and particularly… _ interesting _ ... _ procedures _ for disobedient little termites who talk back to their superiors?" Brother pauses, leaning in to his ear. "Any... _ punishments _ , perhaps?"

The boy freezes up at the word, body instantly flooded with mind-numbing shock for a frightening instant.  _ Punishment _ ...was he getting  _ punished _ ? He hadn't talked back to Brother, or any of the big men! The punishment...the punishment wasn't for  _ him _ , was it? The boy stares pleadingly up at Brother. At Brother’s expecting gaze and encouraging smile, however, the boy slowly recollects himself and beams back pridefully, certainly, despite the awful,  _ awful _ sunken dread pulsing and shoveling into the bottom of his stomach at having to recall any of it at all.

“We whip them.” The boy croaks, clearing his throat sheepishly and attempting to enunciate it clearer this time as his voice cracks from disuse. The answer is automatic, a winning streak that flashes through his mind and rolls off his tongue easily as he stares into space, at the slow and sure horror beginning to watch its way across his victim’s faces. “We whip them and-and keep them under control like the dogs they are.” At Brother’s still-expecting gaze, the boy continues, correcting himself. “Not termites.  _ Dogs _ . Slobbering,  _ stupid _ dogs who need to be put in their place. Dogs who don’t know their place ought not to speak unless spoken to. Dogs that talk whenever they like are dogs that can bite whomever they like. And dogs that bite don't ever deserve to go free.” He recites from memory, rhythmically pacing a hollow engraving etched deep into his heart as his mind frantically tries to ignore how the shards of each word steam and seep into his being, fresh with horrid memory and petulant with undeniable agony.

“Very good, buddy.” Brother nods along happily and pats his back with every inch he forces himself to further tread, breath hitched as though teetering on a tight rope that can snap with any waver of his conscious control. “ _ Very good _ .”

The boy latches onto the praise desperately, trying to grasp onto its cords and balance himself somewhat, gain  _ some _ semblance of control and sanity. He blinks blankly and watches the faces of his victims conjure a different mask—but it is so  _ strange _ , seeing their beautiful faces twist and morph into grimaces of unparalleled horror, sheer disbelief and …pity?

“…I don’t like dogs.” The boy adds after a minute’s pause, stifling a small whimper as a fresh memory resurfaces. “Don’t like whipping them. Don’t like being with them. They bite really bad.”

“Buddy…” Brother warns, the first signs of frustration beginning to flicker in his otherwise kind eyes. “Did I ask you for what you liked?”

“…No sir.” The boy whispers dutifully, bowing his head and hunching his shoulders to his ears as though shrinking in on himself, appearing smaller than he actually was.

“ _ Oh Varian _ .” The golden girl-Rapunzel- whispers, the earlier vexation from her voice having vanished and replaced with a shuttering, almost shrill… _ disappointed _ tone, breathless with disbelief and realisation. The boy observes with growing apprehension and shock when a single tear drips down her pale cheek. “He promised me he would get you  _ help _ .”

The boy stares at her blankly, the distant fragment of memory swimming through his numb mind piercing through his current whirlwind of thoughts and sharply flashing through his mind’s eye. He rapidly brings his fingers to his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose as he flinched and winces at the discordant rhythm of sounds and images coruscating through his conscience.

_ "Princess, my dad needs help!" _

Her morose green eyes, silently following him as her figure became swallowed by the claustrophobic vastness of the halls closing in on him, the firm hands locked around his flimsy arms as the world churned and his feet thrashed and his throat burned with every scream that went unheard, every word lost in the empty space between them, every kick and hit and throw that went unwritten as he called out for help,  _ why wouldn't anyone help him? _

He gasps sharply as though having just emerged from a swim in a frozen pond-an analogy which was not as far off as he would have liked it to be-eyes blown wide as his whirring mind shoves him back into his cold…less cold… _considerably_ _warmer_ reality, one where he is fully clothed and comfortable and _safe_ and perfectly content with Brother and his new family.

“Varian!” The bad-goatee man calls out, his voice shredded in uncharacteristic and unfamiliar concern. “Varian, are you okay?”

“ _ Buddy _ is fine.” Brother corrects self-righteously as he answers on his behalf, the man's grounding touch clasped protectively and proudly on the boy's shoulders, calculatingly balancing their somewhat heavy weight as though trying more to remind him than comfort him. “He doesn’t need  _ your _ concern-not that  _ any _ of it has ever helped him before. Buddy is a strong-“ He shakes the boy slightly, just a slight jolt and tremor, and the boy’s arms wiggle obediently in response, limp like a puppet. “-and  _ good boy _ , who is perfectly capable of being more than fine. Isn’t that right,  _ buddy _ ?” He emphasizes louder, turning to stare into the boy's panicked eyes.

_Good_ _boy_.

Yes, he was a _good_ _boy_.

He didn’t care for whomever that Varian was-whoever these…these  _ ingrates _ thought Varian was. Such a Varian they had only walked over…he thinks. Such a Varian probably didn’t even  _ exist _ …not  _ anymore _ …

An unwarranted spike of unadulterated rage consumes the boy, sizzling in his chest and crawling up his scathed throat. Who were they, to impose some image of a Varian on him when it hurt him so? Who were they, to confuse and scare and pity him? Who were they to plunge him back into the hurricane of self-loathing and doubts that had taken him ages to crawl out from, dripping with denial and seething with regret? Why were they so familiar to him when they made  _ him _ feel so unfamiliar to himself?

Brother notices his pain, as always. Brother observed the way his fists tighten and tremble with barely suppressed fury, as always. So Brother carefully unbuckles the whip from the hook on his own belt, silently entrusting it in the boy’s small hands.

“How are you feeling, buddy?” Brother asks, his voice dripping with a knowing and solemn respect as he observes the boy and the turmulous rage he struggles to seize by the reigns. 

The boy grits his teeth, feeling a small bit of his tongue ram and lick along the cage of his teeth as  the metallic taste of blood blooms in his mouth. He-he needs release. He needs to gnaw at his arms, bite at his nails, something to distract himself. “I feel...ugly.” The boy spits in the direction of his speechless victims. “I feel...ugly and mad...and  _ this is all your fault _ .” It feels so incredibly good, so empowering, euphorically intoxicating to be able to be the one to point his fingers at someone else, to hold the beating rod, to raise the whip.

"Yes." Brother agrees softly, gently repositioning his arm so that he can hold the whip properly, high above his head and aimed well enough. "It is. Oh, buddy, it  _ is _ ." He coos encouragingly, smirking down at the two prisoners. "And what are you going to do about it?"

The boy steels himself, the surge of memories coursing agonisingly thorugh every inch of his being as he pours every tear that had trickled from the brim of his eyes, every drop of blood that had slipped and seeped into his fingers, every angry face that had flooded and rochetted through his senses-into the first lash. "I'm going to make them  _ pay _ !" The unbecoming scream erupts from deep within his chest, invigorating his legs to kick away the heap of braid protecting the girl and mingling in with the piercing crack of the whip as it etches its first flare at the girl's vulnerable upper back.

Her scream is as ear-splitting as is her untouched bad-goatee man’s, searing through his ears and attempting to singe their way into his heart as their clarity and pitch nearly shatter his glasslike resolve into steaming shards of pity. However, the boy has long since learned to guard it well, swallowing away the bile bubbling at the center of his chest and pushing away how the scream mingles with the cacophony of voices escalating in his mind, incomprehensible and jumbled and raging with the undulating tide of unspoken and unretainable frustrations fueling his movements. Heart leaping into his throat from where it had been thundering against his ribs and limbs still reeling from the throw, the boy instinctively, unthinkingly holds his whip high and pushes much more force into the  _ next _ lash, and then the  _ next _ , and  _ then the next _ , without giving the girl- _ Rapunzel _ -much more time to recover from each quick and consecutive blow, one of his arms swinging out of their own accord as he leans forward to try and force his perfect aim all the way through, his eyes determinedly locked on the spot where the split in the back of her cotton dress begins to fray and the broad muscles underneath begin to tense and tremble.

Large, angry streaks of blood begin to seep their way through the beautiful cloth, soaking it so that it sticks to her back and outlines the gashes engraved within. Dissatisfied with her weakening cries, the boy raises his whip and pulls his arm down in an abrupt, swift motion yet again, deeply relishing in the vibrations of the lash rumbling through his sore muscles and the heightened pitch of the pained scream as it tears through the girl’s hollow and doubtlessly parched throat, gliding off her disobedient tongue and gurgling with the choked sobs that blanket it. Her entire body trembles uncontrollably, her knees struggling to keep herself upright in the painful and uncomfortable position, her forearms and elbows straining to remain erect. The boy is glad he cannot quite see their faces, for how they strain and duck against the floor after their necks crane to lift and see each other. The boy decides to stop at twenty. _Twenty_ _lashes_ , because he distinctly remembers Brother telling him the girl was twenty years old. Each lash, each blow of inescapable and excruciating pain, for each year of the sorry life she had led, of how she had tainted the earth and people she walked over, of the life that he had possible once envied and now relished in watching flicker with horror and writhe in agony. One lash for each year is _merciful_ , it is just, it is _fair_ -not near as many as he got-but of course, the girl and bad-goatee man continue their incessant and ungrateful protests, mewling and whining pathetically like raccoons in cages and children in prisons.

“Varian,  _ no _ ! No, please!  _ Please stop _ !  **_RAPUNZEL_ ** !”

Intertwined with the girl’s increasingly suffering, increasingly  _ satisfying _ screams are the continuous strings of unashamed curses and pleas and apologies and yells dripping through the bad-goatee man’s disobedient tongue, discordant without a rhythm or pace as his own arms tense and strain under where they are subdued meticulously. Piqued as his interest is distracted, the boy raises his whip and cracks its rough, stern, reprimanding tongue along the man’s back then, with such practiced and accurate force that it slices seamlessly through the tougher outlining of his dark jacket on the first try and punctures through to the tender flesh underneath without hesitance. The bad-goatee man’s agonized yells are more sudden, sharp, and short than the girl’s, still tight with the vain struggles to withhold and withstand the excruciating pain flaring through his entire being while trying to douse his panic and despair under the guise of deep, shuddering breaths that coax their way into his battering lungs and dry coughs that clog and choke his muffled cries further. The bad-goatee man’s blood is darker, gushing forth endlessly from the gashes after the fourth strike, splattering bits at the back of his neck as the whipping crop drips with the filth, creeping over his sinewy shoulders in slender trails of crimson. The girl’s cracked pleas are frantic, cracked with weakness and raw helplessness, fractured with that strange name and strange cries and strange sobs that the boy struggles to understand.

“Eugene!” She cries, the large tears glistening in her remorseful eyes and gleaming helplessly in the dull trickles of moonlight that shine upon her reddened face. The boy stops when he is about to finish his eleventh strike- stops to collect his faltering breath, stops for some semblance of control among the foggy bliss clinging to his every thought, stops so that the acidic burn crippling his grip begins to fade at the notion of rest.

“Now  _ that _ ,  _ right there _ , is how it is done!” Brother’s elated howl of laughter calls out to him during his pause, a proud smile adorning his lips and a pleased glimmer of amusement finishing it through.

Brother’s smile and his own heaving breaths pump overwhelmingly powerful flashes of adrenaline through his mind’s eye, pouring fluidly down his lungs as though oil ready to set the flame in his belly alight, intoxicating him with a euphoric sense of superiority and…an almost intangible  _ bliss _ . “I couldn’t have done it better myself.” Brother continues and ruffles at the mop of unruly hair at his head appreciatively, knowing more than anyone how solemnly and unabashedly true those words rang. The boy nods, sucking in air sharply one inhale after another, the lightheadedness clouding his senses beginning to fade and be replaced with the dull throb of a gruesome headache that jars him back to reality, to his own sweaty palms, to the sore lines along his curled fingers and the small crescent-shaped marks embedded in his palm where he had so tightly clutched the whipping crop, to the silent tears trekking steadily down his unmoving, expressionless face.

“Brother-“ The boy begins, voice quiet and catching in his throat as he watches the bad-goatee man’s sharp chin fall to the ground, his entire being shuddering with every attempt to breathe properly through the doubtlessly blinding fits of pain wracking his bones and pulsing in his flesh. 

Brother’s glittering eyes immediately sharpen with annoyance, narrowing to meet his own in challenge. “Did I  _ ask _ you your next quiz question yet, buddy?”

“N-No, sir.” The boy obediently replies, lips trembling as he struggles to withhold the sudden need to sob aloud again. The air between them is thick and still, heavy with the harsh breaths of the people he had just beaten-the wild dogs  _ he _ had just rightfully put in their place.

“Oh, _alright_. If you’re going to be so _impatient_ about it.” Brother concedes after a troubled pause, sighing heavily and throwing his head back in an exaggerated attempt to show disdain, as though the boy's disobedience caused him physical pain. Gut twinging with a fresh quiver of guilt at seeing how he had annoyed his Brother, the boy nods shyly, trying desperately to keep his eyes off of the groans and grunts of the pained souls behind him-the souls in pain _because_ _of_ _him_.

Brother’s impatient glare fades into a crafted grin of mischief, leaning in and gesturing for the boy to do the same as they turn away from the withered bodies of their prisoners, who gawk at each other and then at them with suspicion and despair. “Now…if you listen carefully and answer this next one right, I’m going to let you decide what to do with them.” Brother’s careful hands find his face, his elbows locked against his shoulders as his fingers sweep through the tears cascading his cheeks and the beads of sweat trickling down his temple, combing through where his grimy hair sticks in an itchy tangle against his flushed skin. Brother cups the boy's face between his palms, drumming at his head as though checking for if there was something inside. “Whatever you like, yeah?” The boy quickly latches onto one of the man’s forearms and nods keenly as he holds it tightly, assuringly to his face, trying to find solace in the faintest warmth pressed against his cold skin and ignoring the bad-goatee man’s small cries of protest and his pleading “Varian,  _ no _ ” before he hisses in pain at whatever movement he had foolishly tried.

Brother nods in affirmation before removing his arms and continuing, ignoring how the boy pines after the touch. “I couldn’t help but notice that our… _criminals_ seemed to be screaming an _awful_ _lot_ during their punishment. I’ve seen younger folks take it much better. I suppose, in time, if they are exposed to it enough…they will _eventually_ learn to take it like the good dogs we _know_ they can be.” His easy, calm smile flickers then, and the boy squints his eyes in fully attentive concern. “But that will take a lot of time. And a lot of strikes.” Sighing dolefully, exhaustedly, Brother loops a tired arm around the boy’s shoulders and sneaks him a calculating glance. When he notices the boy begin to stare off into space to contemplate his reasoning, he pokes his nose none-too-gently, and the boy’s hand flies up to rub at the appendage. Before the boy can touch it, however, Brother carefully catches his hand and puts it back down, pointedly squeezing it before letting it flop uselessly at his side. The boy complies wordlessly and doesn’t lift it again, despite the slight ache in his nose begging to be rubbed soothingly. “It’s so _tiring_ , isn’t it? Keeping unruly dogs in line with our own hands? Why should it take pain and effort on your part, to do all the work when it is _they_ who should be paying the price of _their_ sins with _their_ suffering?”

The boy nods along, wanting more than anything to show Brother that he was listening, that he understood-Brother was very,  _ very _ smart, and he always knew the best way to do things.  _ Brother always knew best _ . Brother knew which positions to lie in after a particularly rough beating, Brother knew what to eat when he was crippled in the rock-hard prison cot and green in the face, Brother knew what to do when the strange men came to his cell with their pouches of money and clatter of swords and judgemental sneers.

Brother bends down and spells everything out slowly, as though speaking to a child. “So…your next quiz time question is…what do we do when they can’t stop screaming?”

The boy bites his bottom lip nervously, one hand coming up to rub against the opposite arm as he looks down, away from Rapunzel's questioning gaze. He gulps away the fleeting pang of dread shooting up his spine, instead choosing to focus on Brother awaiting his very dear answers. “We…use _the_ _machine_?” He suggests, his voice peaking with a dreaded squeak and threatening to crack despite knowing the clear and direct answer. He really does hope Brother doesn’t want to use… _the_ _machine_. There was much more fun they could make do with otherwise…but why _the_ _machine_? He thought Brother _hated_ that thing. He thought-Brother had _promised_ him they would never use it again, especially not after what happened _last_ time…

“ _ Yes _ .” Brother’s voice tapers off into an eerie yet appreciative whisper, nodding as his dark brown orbs remain locked on the boy’s questioning crystal blue ones, as though waiting intently for his next words, a fox watching its prey wander into its trap.

“But-Brother…” The boy tries to stammer in protest. “-last time it-”

Brother’s hand moves suddenly to tightly latch around his upper arm, an airlock clutch that nearly cuts off his circulation and wrangles the tremulous fear quivering under his goose bumped skin. The boy immediately shuts up, breath hitching as his limb strains uselessly under the firm hold. “ _ Did I ask your next quiz time question, little one _ ?” Brother promptly hisses again, his voice devoid of anger yet his eyes glistening with a warning more frustrated than the last one.

“No.” The boy instantly replies diminutively, allowing his apologetic sorrow to be laid vulnerable in his face and the silent plea behind his next words. He had upset Brother _again_. He had _no_ _business_ , ruining quiz time for everyone and talking when he _shouldn't_. _No_ _business_ , being ungrateful to the man who was doing _everything_ for his safety and satisfaction. “No, Brother, you didn’t.”

“That’s better. _Much_ _better_.” Brother praises slowly in the same whispery tone, the fingers unlocking their deathly grip around his arm and instead running as smoothly as his speech, the faintest touch of a feather, down the sore limb. “You know I would never do anything that isn’t good for you, buddy. Some things you just _have_ to trust me on, even if you’re uncomfortable with it, so I could do what’s best for _all_ of us." After a pause of studying the boy's doubtful expression, the man adds helpfully. "For the _both_ of us.” Brother leans forward, a few fingers brushing away the stray strands of hair hanging before the boy’s now attentive eyes. “Don’t you _want_ that? To be _safe_ and _comfortable_?” Brother's eyes seem genuinely hurt-how dare the boy act so ungrateful when all Brother wanted to do was keep him _safe_ and comfortable?

“Is…is that my quiz time question?” The boy timidly broaches first.

Brother chuckles, ruffling his hair again and unbuckling the neutralizing alchemy ball from his belt himself. “You’re getting good at this.” He remarks with a tinge of admiration before he sifts back into his serious self and moves towards the prisoner's struggling forms. “But no. It’s an  _ honest _ question.”

The boy ruminates deeply before answering definitively. “Yes.”

Brother nods, smiling as he wrestles the bad-goatee man up into a standing position, the man grunting and growling as his disheveled hair flings before his tired, reddened eyes and his sallow cheeks glisten with dried tear tracks. The man practically hangs from Brother’s steadfast grip on the back of his collar and the torn area of his shoulder, his knees bending on their own accord and quivering slightly as they struggle to hold up his own weight. 

Brother gestures to the girl- _ Rapunzel _ , he should really be calling her Rapunzel,  _ it shouldn’t bother him at all _ -who has sunk to the floor face-first, limp and unresponsive, a few strands of her hair splayed messily, spooning her twig-like limbs and curling across the dirty tiles of the dungeon floor.

Reluctantly, the boy shoves aside the first slivers of fear beginning to lick at his heart, which wilts at the sight of the blood caked along her entire back and dried up against her roughened cotton dress. He moves his arms experimentally, trying first to pick her up by only the arms, then tugging at her hair, then trying to drag her by her ankles, and  _ then _ kicking lightly at her elbows (that usually wakes him up). The girl remains unconscious, and the boy is at the same place he began.

Brother chuckles, not unkindly, as he gestures for the boy to take the bad-goatee man instead. “It’s alright, buddy, let me handle her.” Through sifting and repositioning, the man finally manages to collect her bridal-style and carry her with ease, the loose strands of her hair following behind as he leads the way out of the cell. The boy looks up at the bad-goatee man, who blinks at him curiously-it is not an expression of accusation or scrutiny that he is used to, nor is it even one of pity and sympathy that he expects. It is just  _ curious _ and...  _ concerned _ , a sunken tiredness in the eyes as he allows the boy to shackle his arms behind his back without making so much as a move to fight back, his eyes then following Brother’s confident stride and burning into the back of his head, flitting worriedly to the unconscious woman and then looking back wordlessly at the boy again.

They reach the room with _the_ _machine_ quicker than the boy had hoped, and he is only able to tell because bad-goatee man stops short in his tracks, paralyzed with shock at the scene before him. Brother sets the girl down and readjusts bad-goatee man’s shackles so that he is chained to the chair next to the heap of broken machinery. The conducting rods have long been disassembled since the last… _incident_. A severed, deformed arm pokes out from underneath a few pieces, coated in the stench of rot and the swarm of flies. A large empty bucket strewn here, broken shards of neglected metal scattered there, the dried stains of blood less prominent now that a few weeks had passed. The boy blinks unfazed at the mess before turning to Brother for guidance.

Brother nods and pats his back. “Will you be a good boy and do the honors?”

The boy nods wordlessly-what else can he say, after all?- and his hands instinctively find the broken or disoriented bits of machinery, guided by a sixth sense, swathed with a practiced and almost unthinking surety as his fingers dig and drill and twist and pick through the different parts. An old part of him flares with elation and exuberance, before the familiar feeling is shoved aside almost immediately. His fingers prance and prod and push along blunt and sharp edges, down corners and up ridges until he yelps in disgust and throw what is left of the arm out. The parts of the machine are solid and cold and unfeeling to the pads of some of his fingertips, a variety of differently structured pieces gleaming with pride in moon-lit beauty and awaiting purpose in the moon-faced people. The machine whirs to life with a bustling spirit barely contained in the smoke blustering from its engines and the lightning sizzling along its conducting rods, unlike the lifeless robotic movements of the arms of their creator…or rather, their new owner. The slightest rust of a screw smoothens under his curious caresses, the most unshapely button finds a place under his unwavering and determined gaze. The machine and those who enter it are forever his and Brother's to keep. The machine and those who enter it lull disobedience to an eternal slumber and make things easier. The machine and those who enter it never cause problems ever again.

“Who-whose arm was that?” Bad-goatee man stutters breathlessly, voice hitched as Rapunzel begins to awaken slowly, groaning in pain as she shifts in her binds and tries to crane her neck up, glaring through her loose strands of hair to properly see Brother and the boy.

Brother shrugs before sending the boy a withering glare, and the boy quickly looks away, choosing to instead timidly fiddle with the first button, circling its smooth edges with his thumb, fantasizing about what it would be like to finally have the prisoners at his whim.

“Some idiot who couldn’t keep his mouth shut.” Brother coarsely replies before hauling the half-conscious girl up first.

“No, no, no!” Bad-goatee man begins to protest sharply, loudly, his voice cracked from misuse and throat parched from the earlier screaming session yet still. “Don’t touch her! Stay away from her!  _ Rapunzel _ !”

Brother, of course, doesn’t heed his pathetic mewls, laying her down on the table-like surface of the machine and beginning to secure the straps firm and tight around her slightly squirming body. 

“Stop! Please! We won’t say anything! We won’t! You-you want us silenced, right?” Bad-goatee man pleads, he questions, he  _ dares _ , his desperate brown orbs frantically flitting between the boy’s pale face and Brother’s unmoving one. the boy stares back, bewildered as he squirms and thrashes and roars in his bonds like a caged wild animal. “I won’t say a word! You can whip me more, I’ll prove it to you! I won’t scream! I swear I  _ won’t _ !” His voice cracks with unshed tears as Brother finishes the last strap on the girl, who is now wide awake and blinking dazedly at everything around her with renewed, dumbfounded panic. “Please! Please, let Rapunzel go!”

Brother gets up and strides towards the restrained man in one fluid motion, slapping him with a loud, resounding crack that echoes throughout the room and nearly snaps the boy out of his wits. The man only gasps in momentary shock as Brother quickly unshackles his wrists from the chair while keeping his arms bound by his own and wrestles him towards the machine. The man struggles adamantly, eyes wide and heels digging into the ground in panic as the sweat drips from his brow. One of his thrashing legs manages to kick Brother in the shins, and the boy rushes forward to help before Brother stops him and whistles for a few more of his ‘friends.’

Clementine and Kai appear, seizing the bad-goatee man from Brother’s faltering clutches and dragging him over to the machine, Kai holding him down as Clementine smoothly straps him in.

The boy shies away from their well-meaning gazes, feeling the slightest pangs of envy well within his gut. This was supposed to be a special session between  _ only _ him and Brother. The others didn’t  _ understand _ Brother like he did-the others didn’t  _ deserve _ to be here. Why didn't Brother take  _ his _ help? Was he that useless?

“Permission to ask, Brother?” The boy quietly prods as the man smugly watches the bad-goatee man and the girl talk frantically to each other, eyeing their unescapable restraints and conformable positions with a twisted satisfaction. Brother nods almost absent-mindedly, not taking his eyes away from his new prey.

“Can we do something else? Something…easier?” The boy approaches.

Brother’s eyes sharply snap to him, and the boy cowers in an instant and instinctive flash of fear, fully expecting another harsh reprimand or something worse. However, his eyes soften, and he looks at him curiously.

“Why do you think that, buddy?”

“Because…it shouldn’t take so much effort. Like you said." The boy says, feeling another twinge of remorse as he hears the bad-goatee man calling out to him in the distance, his voice muffled and numb, as though he was immersed in a wistful, dream-like stupor. Seeing the machine himself didn't help matters any. "There are a lot of…more fun things we can do. Like with the horses!”

When they had first conquered Corona, Brother and his friends had expressed arrant disgust over how they kept their horses 'captive' in stables and saddles. Brother had ordered them all free, and as an added bonus to their former riders, he had had the remaining Coronan soldiers tied by the ankles with ropes attached to the horses’ necks. Brother and his friends had all cheered and cackled in irrepressible glee as the soldiers were dragged over rocky terrains and spiky grass and mud tracks, their cries of agony echoing into the afternoon sky. 

It had been his and Brother’s first proper ‘event’ together as a part of the  new family, and these folks certainly  _ seem _ enjoyable to watch.

“That’s a very nice idea, buddy.” Brother nods along, clearly remembering and chuckling fondly at the memory. “ _ If _ they survive this punishment, we’ll go along with your choice, as we promised. I reckon we still have a horse or two in there, but if not we can always go out and find one lurking around." Scoffing and looping an arm around the slightly-more-nervous boy, Brother guides them to a few seats next to the machine's controls a safe distance away. He snorts then, tucking the boy closer to his chest upon noticing the first shivers of distress. "I wouldn't be surprised if these wackos brainwashed those poor things with false shows of affection to earn their loyalty and make them stay.”

For some reason, the comment leaves an uneasy settlement at the center of the boy's chest. He forces his wavering smile to steel in the face of the new crackles the machine emanates as it prepares for its new victims, who still squirm as the rods wound around the crowns of their heads, wrists and ankles begin to glow, the spikes of the wheels inches away from their arms and legs beginning to spin so quickly they blur to the common eye. Their prone bodies face upwards, the blinding light above them causing their eyes to close as the ringing of the machine becomes too loud to ignore. Then Brother shouts “ _ begin _ !” and his gloved hand flies to the button without a second thought with a mind of its own, slamming its torpid weight down onto the control.

When the first screams pierce his ears, they are submerged in a cacophony of crackles and thumps from the raggedy old machine. He watches in fascination as their bodies crumple from the center and wither, dancing with dissonant, inharmonious and seismic rigor that tenses and tremors along their doubtlessly aching muscles.

Their eyes bulge out of their sockets, mouths agape as their scream begin to wither from the roots of their raw throats, splintered with unparalleled excruciation and splotched with the scorch of what they had wrought and sprinkled with unrelenting fervor. The lights of the machine flash so brightly the boy turns his head away before daring to stare again, a few sizzles of electricity bursting through one limb or down another, their bodies flopping against the restraints and their skin seeming to melt back into their bones as the vibrations overwhelm their limp forms. The spikes spin and occasionally, teasingly poke against a few centimeters of skin, not enough to make it gush with blood but certainly enough to shred the first layers of skin and puncture vessels if they dared to try and move from their places. Unfortunately, Rapunzel learns this the hard way, shrieking with all her might as she tries to turn her foot away from one spike and accidentally plunges her ankle against another, the small bits of her flesh beginning to spray this way and that as her body jolts with another rush of electricity.

A sudden cold, distinct chill coruscates through the boy’s heart, shocking him out of his wits as her next scream jars him back to the bloody ankle. _Blood_ …he had _seen_ blood before, it _shouldn’t_ bother him so much…not _really_. But then he holds his breath, his wide eyes fastened to how the scathe and singe of their raw, beautiful dirty spirits bluster and bellow in the siren of their ear-splitting screams, even as they fracture with dryness and arrant exhaustion, even as...as the machine continues to whir and the aduience continues to wathc silently, _too_ _silently_. The despair and insurmountable terror in bad-goatee man’s voice as his widened eyes remain locked on his loved one’s injured foot, the spike next to his arm piercing the skin enough to draw a trickle of blood as he seizes again, his teeth gritting and his eyes rolling into the back of his head after the third round. The increasingly anguished shrieks as the spike screwed further into the flesh of Rapunzel's ankle, nearly meeting bone... _flashing_ _lights_ , _so_ _many_ flashing lights and blurred faces and crunching screws and sizzling electric shocks and _screaming...too much screaming...when would it stop?_

The boy’s breath hitches as his hand flies out and pulls a lever, stopping the running wheel of spikes and screws promptly, though the electricity continues bustling. 

And then something strange happens.

The bad-goatee man’s screams stop, but the other’s don’t, refusing to be silenced as they escalate louder and higher with each resounding burst of agony that coruscates through her being, swiveling down to the strands of her hair to the very tips and splitting them into millions of tinier strands, raggedy and haggard looking as they stand on end. Then they begin to knot and bend with a blinding glow.

The golden hair  _ glows _ , not with the crackling energy of electricity but something  _ else _ , the bloom awakening from her scalp and blossoming down her mending strands until they shine brighter in unison, floating peacefully and freely in a large gloop of unending gold.

_ Gold _ .

It is not the garish gold that had so frivolously adorned the necks and heads of the royalty they had strapped to their thrones and mind-wiped. It is not the luxurious gold that had been so generously draped along the silk clothes and bedsheets in the palace rooms he frequented when he was bored. It is not even the strong gold of the sun that had so magnanimously spilled through the cracks of his clouded world and cornered cell.

It was the gladdened arms of a golden death, that had snuck their way greedily up his father’s- _ his father, he had a father _ . It is the gladdened loops of a golden sheen of light, shooting through the strands and shimmering up  _ the amber that blanketed his father _ . It is the gladdened trunk of a golden spurt of light, erupting into the sky like lava as he watched frantically from his dark room in a dark robot standing tall amongst dark people waiting for him to bend and bow to the dark night-hauling him out in dark chains and throwing him into dark cells and sought refuge in the arms of dark shells of souls, fantasizing of the dark rings around his raccoon’s worried eyes and the dark drapes covering his father’s suspended corpse and dark princesses who pulled him into dark abysses and watched him struggle to stay afloat in the heavy clasps of dark inks that wrote laws and sentences too heavy for him to bear and dark masks that concealed soldiers too large for him to fight and dark men who turned away from him with silences too infuriating for him to remain silent for any longer, drowning him in the darkness of his own soul.

This-she was  _ this _ . She  _ was _ the darkness.  _ She _ , with hair as golden as the death that had encased his father’s golden heart,  _ she _ who owned the golden silks and golden flowers and golden jewelry,  _ she _ who had coaxed him into the pit of blackness with golden smiles and golden promises…she  _ was _ the darkness. She was  _ Princess Rapunzel of Corona _ , the girl-no, the  _ woman _ who had pushed him headfirst into the dark world of secrets and sorrows and sin and separatists.  _ She was the woman who had ruined his life _ .

She hadn’t been there for a long time…but  _ she might as well have been _ .

It might as well have been her who had laid the first slap to his unsuspecting face. It might as well have been her jeers the graced his mind and brushed coarsely about his heart as every inch of his being ached with different kinds of inescapable and unstoppable agony. It might as well have been her laughter that had daunted his restless ears and haunted his sleepless nights. It might as well have been _her_ fingers gingerly knotting the makeshift noose around his neck and mockingly howling in response to his terrified screams. It might as well have been her hands, holding him down as he writhed in horrific agony and screamed to the heavens for mercy with each jolt and kick and punch, for _help_ , _princess, I need your help_. It might as well have been her harsh reprimand as he screamed and tripped over his own feet, curling in on himself as he was surrounded and slobbered over by the wild dogs sent after wild prisoners who ran for wild things like survival. It might as well have been her feet that had kicked at him when he collapsed with the heavy brick still cradled in his bruised, broken arms.... _His-his arms_... 

He looks down at his trembling gloved right hand, tentatively poking at it with his left hand, some fingers on that left hand poking through the frayed holes of the old glove that had been torn during work…so  _ different _ from its counterpart, which shined in a sleek, almost new-looking black glove. With his left hand quaking so terribly he can barely keep it straight, the boy unmasks the right-and gawks at the metallic hand in the place of where his real hand should be. Carefully, he picks at the edge of his folded sleeve and lifts it, only to find the metallic rod continuing up his arm to the shoulder socket. He blinks, harsh breath shuddering in and out more discordantly as the lightheadedness and steel-like, frigid sensation of his numb mind and numb arm and numb spirit returns ten-fold, eliciting a new wave of undulating pain through his heart. Why- _ why _ is he surprised? He  _ knows _ about his…strange arm. He himself had invented it with Brother’s help, so  _ why _ -

His eyes dart rapidly to the half-eaten flesh of the severed arm in the corner…and the memory jolts through his mind’s eye again.  _ His neck craning, his head shaking, the hair obscuring his face and matting to his moist cheeks and sweaty neck as the lights flash and the rods crackle and the wheels spin and the machine creaks. The king’s face, looming unimpressed above it all. “ _ **_Is the boy fixed?_ ** _ ” _

“ **Is he fixed?** ” As he was dumped in a crumpled heap of broken bones and shattered hopes and missing limb, a sobbing mess of blood and tears, into the castle courtyard.

“ **Is he fixed?** ” As Brother secures his strong arm around his back and underneath his knees, his limp, half-conscious form bouncing with each rushed stride.

“ **Is he fixed?** ” As the frigid breeze of the night settled into his bones and crept up his flesh, eating away at whatever warmth he had left,  _ trying _ -trying desperately to clutch onto Brother’s shirt with the  _ one good hand he had left _ , wailing and screaming and reeling from the pain and nausea and utter fear as he was held close for the first time in ages-as he had gripped the vest thinking it to be his father, as he had blankly stared up at the startled man in his cell asking  _ who _ he was, as he trudged down the empty halls blindly with Brother trying to get him to drink, as guard after guard came to flock him away to the therapists and the bad men and the  _ masters _ who all just wanted to  _ help _ him- _ "why won't you let us help you, boy? WHY CAN'T YOU BE FIXED LIKE A GOOD BOY?" _ .

“Stay still now, like a _good_ _boy_.”

"And shut that boy up!"

“You’re not a criminal, you’re a  _ good boy _ .” As he stared into Brother’s kind, trusting eyes.

“Clean up your own mess,  _ boy _ .” As he squints through the spotted blur of gushing tears and dwindling consciousness at what was left of his arm

“Varian.” He is yanked back to the moment by the bad-goatee man’s voice, the towering figure of Brother and his friends snapping him back to the present abruptly, sharply. Around him, the room is a wreck. Rapunzel is unconscious, her head limply titled to the side, but her hair is still glowing as his machine lies in pieces at his very feet, his severed arm nowhere to be found, quite possibly buried under the rubble. They are no longer strapped to the table…the bad-goatee man is braced against the floor and legs curled as though trying to push himself up, eyes locked on him as everyone else and yet so  _ different _ from everyone else’s.

The boy blinks, before he registers Brother’s demanding gaze, the sour gleam of disappointment clear as the menace in his eyes and scathing through the tight, taut lines of his face, hands on his hips and nostrils flaring. “Buddy.” He begins with no affection in his tone. " _ What _ happened back there?"

_ Buddy _ . He wasn’t… _ buddy _ .

His name. He had forgotten his own name. He had blinked unresponsive to it, unacquantanced with anyone using it anymore. He had blinked unassumingly, not having seen Brother’s knowing smirk or knowing glances or knowing coaxes when they had led him to his new lab. He had-he had forgotten his own  _ name _ . He had blinked, and everything had changed-but nothing really had, except himself. He had...he had done terrible, terrible things and he wasn't even...Varian. He had been  _ Varian _ all along. He had been  _ that _ Varian-because he hadn't want to be... _ and he still didn't want to be _ .

“Buddy, I asked you a  _ question _ .” The man before him raises his voice irritably.

“D-Don’t call me that.” The boy allows, a low and earning tone steadier than he feels himself to be, than he has ever felt, refusing to cower before not-Brother and his not-family with a slowly refurbishing purpose that begins deep in his gut and sprouts out to blossom boldly in his chest.

“ _ What did you say _ ?” The man demands louder, placing a firm hand against his shoulder.

The boy jolts away as though singed to the touch, boldly meeting his gaze with a sudden spike of raw and unadulterated fury. “I  _ said _ ,  **_DON’T CALL ME BUDDY_ ** !” He yells for the first time in what feels like forever, his tongue gleefully escaping the cage of his grit teeth and carrying his new voice to the world-or rather, to  _ his _ world. To what  _ had _ been his world...to what  _ didn't _ have to be his world  _ anymore _ .

The boy-Varian, _he is Varian_ -holds the murderous, menacing gaze and the speechless sentiments swimming behind it, his voice dripping with an old sarcasm he thought he had long since lost. “Did that answer your _quiz_ _question_ , _Brother_?”

The man’s eyes narrow suspiciously, one eye twitching as his lips tighten to maintain an outwardly calm facade. “You’re confused, little one. I helped you. You need me to do this.” He reaches out an arm again -slow, steady, unbearably familiar.

No. No. He didn't need...a brother...he didn’t need  _ him _ .

This...man...  _ had _ helped him, even when he was reduced to nothing, held by no one else…but Varian didn’t need him to be someone now. What...was happening...what was being done...was wrong. It was hurting others. It was inflicting the pain he had felt on others and that would not, could not satisfy them or rectify what had been done in the past. Andrew...was not doing this for Varian. Or for good. Or for the betterment of those at their worst. 

He, like most people in Varian’s life, was using him for his own gains. And when the time came, Varian would not be his buddy any longer.  _ He was not going to wait for that to happen. He did not want to wait for his own demise at the hands of someone else again. _

“Do I? Or-or do you n-need me? A sh-shame really, b-because I won’t be doing anything for you.” Varian spits out, confidence growing even as the fear in his chest escalates along with it simultaneously. “A-after all, it will make q-quite the d-difference if I’m not around to answer your  _ questions _ .”

He doesn't get enough time before his head is snapped to the side with a swift and powerful backhand, his arms flailing out instinctively as he braces them to defend himself. He staggers nonetheless, head spinning as his shoulders are grabbed and he is lifted off the floor, his feet thrashing relentlessly from where they dangle in a mixture of panic and rage, his hands coming up to claw and scratch and drill into Broth- _ Andrew's _ exposed forearms.

“No, it  _ doesn’t _ . A shame, really, considering that answering is all you’ve ever been good at.” Andrew grows under his breath after a momentary pause of shock, his lifeless eyes locked on Varian’s own as the boy’s heart rockets against his chest. He lifts the struggling boy higher and slams him back-first into the pile of sharp, dirty rubble, his head slamming against the pieces of metal that he had so tenderly caressed mere moments before and enabling the shards to rub against his scalp, tangling in his hair. Varian writhes in his relentless grasp, the arm holding him down and seeming to drown him in it suddenly moving up to jab a sharp elbow right at the center of his throat. The body comes closer, an oppressive, familiar weight holding him down as he gasps and thrashes with the little might he has left, his lungs heaving and spots dancing before his eyes. Andrew’s spare arm flies to his prosthetic arm-in one swift instant, his fingers are digging agonisingly into the hollow socket of his shoulder, clawing away at stitches and sown flesh and embedded metal as he all but tears the arm off the boy.

“ _ I gave you this _ .” Andrew hisses over the boy’s tormented cries, barely able to keep him still even as his lips turn blue and his eyes bulge out of their sockets. “When you had  _ nothing _ ,  _ I gave you this _ .” Varian resists the urge to apologize profusely, to throw himself at Andrew's familiar chest and sob his every whim out as he had so many times before, gazing into the cruel eyes he had so foolishly believed to care for...care for  _ him _ .  _ No one cared about him _ . “It’s only fair that I take it back. You owe me  _ everything _ , and it's only fair that I take it  _ back _ .” The elbow at his throat is removed, only to be replaced by a firmer grip of cold fingers- _ cold _ fingers, drilling into his bruised skin and squeezing  _ tight _ , tighter around him-tight as he had been held that fateful day, tight as the chains that had adorned his wrists, tight as the straps that held him down as he watched his arm crumble and spray into the hacking machine, his body seizing with electrified jolts of agony after agony.

He could give in. Standing by himself hasn’t ever worked before-it hadn’t work  _ then _ , why would it work  _ now _ ? He could apologize right  _ now _ , pretend it hadn’t happened, pretend that he is genuinely sorry and perhaps choose another time to act up and climb his way out.

_ But he won’t _ .

Because this time, even while drowning in the broken parts of a broken machine with a broken prosthetic arm and a broken soul strangling him for every breath...he is not  _ broken _ , he is not  _ ugly _ , he is not  _ alone _ - _ he doesn’t have to believe he is, and so he doesn't have to be _ .

He is going to fix it-this _ugly_ _mess_ , whosever fault it was, whomever haunted his dreams and daunted his every glance to the broken mirrors and broken machines and broken souls that had forever etched themselves into his mind. He may not be fixed-he may not be as beautiful as the people he envied and the people who had hurt him and the people who had gotten away with tugging him into the darkest depths of the worlds with the brightest smiles and brightest hair and brightest promises-he may forever be as deformed as the dark walls and dark arm and dark machine that he pretended didn’t exist. He-he _hated_ himself still, and he _hated_ the bad-goatee man and the golden-haired girl _still_.

He looks back at Rapunzel’s floating hair, hair that hadn’t been spared to save him, not once. Hair as gold as the looming amber and gloomy sun. He refuses to have a golden fate sealed and saved by the golden hair that had forced him into the darkest days of his life. He refuses to be swooned into sympathy by the golden glow of the golden child who had all but had him thrown into the dark ink swamping her golden country today, in the dark knights born from where the gold slipped through the cracks and led to a dark magic that left none unscathed.

But he can fix this.

He will fix it-if he couldn’t fix himself, if they couldn’t fix him, he would fix this, even if it meant breaking every bone in his body and every pulse from his heart and every limb from its socket.

For he is not alone, not anymore.

He knows what to do.

He turns to Eugene’s limp form, still disoriented and being held down by the Saporians, and Rapunzel’s still unconscious body, peacefully slumbering oblivious to the struggle they were all facing.

“Rapunzel!” He yells only to try and get her attention for what could be the last time, he screams, with the last of breath he can muster. The name floods like a foreign scent, affronting to his tongue and rehashing every desperate memory he had ever held close to his chest and away from his mind countless nights and gruesome mornings ago. He forces himself to remember the darkest days of his life, forces himself to remember every word of research he had traced with his tired fingers and scanned with his tired eyes and scrutinized with his tired mind. It’s a huge risk to take-he had only remembered part of it, after all, and had quickly discarded it not knowing what it could do. After all, it was darkness that had been destroying him and his village and his father and his life. It had been darkness sprouting from the dying earth and uprooting homes from the hinges and encasing him after long evenings in the machine. It is a memory of his old self he  _ hates _ -running this way and that translating and working and mixing and reading as the entire world slept oblivious to his troubles, to his need for help. 

And it is darkness that will save him.

“ _ Wither _ … _ and _ …. _ decay _ …” He begins in a hollow whisper, holding his breath as he watches the tips of Rapunzel’s golden hair fade to blackness and seep up her strands to her scalp.

He panics, knowing if his plan doesn’t work, these next words could be his last…he didn’t know much of the incantation beyond this, but  _ maybe _ Rapunzel did. Rapunzel hadn’t been here-Rapunzel had left for her trip. Rapunzel had left him to the hands of tyrants and therapists and doctors and terrorists for  _ this _ -and he hoped, for the life of him, that  _ this _ would work. Never had he thought he would be forced to trust her with his life again. Never had he thought that he would have to be doing this,  _ all over again _ . She had ruined his life-and now he was using her to save it...by quite possibly ending it at the same time. “ _ End…this destiny _ .”

For a moment, all is still and silent, and Varian truly thinks he has died. Rapunzel couldn’t save his father-there was _no_ _reason_ to believe she could save him. Andrew’s face above him is a discontent blur, and Varian's mind numbs, his consciousness chipping off bit by bit, eyes struggling to stay awake.

But then a stronger voice sings above the ashes of the familiar silence, emerging clear and loud and thick with grim cruelty. “ _ Break these earthly chains, and set the spirit free. _ ” She finishes off for him, and Andrew’s grip weakens. Varian sharply sucks in a shuddering breath, hands flying to his aching throat and thundering chest as he dares to look up at her. Her eyes are a deep, lifeless black, charged streaks of bright orange running through the thick strands of her now pitch-black hair as they float and sweep all over the place. Varian doesn’t make it to his knees before a sudden bout of airlessness knocks the wind out of him, his skin ridden with a flush of unbearable cold.

It is death and darkness, once distant and now discordant, permeating the air with a suffocating musk that clings to his every breath and clogs every attempt to breathe.It encompasses, cocoons him, violating and corrupting him, feeding the greedily growing pit at the center of his being and spiraling anywhere and everywhere, sending blistering effluxes of unparalleled and inescapable excruciation with every pulse that seems to echo and fade into the ambience of the ringing and singing and breathing. He shakily tries to gasp for breath, trying to evade the persistent emptiness eating away at his insides, only to allow the fire into his lungs, battering his heart for breath and pacing its fury with fire, cold fire springing through his entire body, tingling at the tops of his toes and scorching the chambers of his heart. He-he’s so tired, and cold-everything felt so cold, so lifeless, so empty, as though the marrow from his bones and the oxygen in the air had been sucked out by a vacuum of increasingly empty space. Empty…it all felt so  _ empty _ …. _ he was so alone _ …

Having no prior experience to it, Varian watches the others slide to his knees as well, eyes beginning to hollow into their sockets from where they had been latched onto their faces, skin folding and almost melting back as they grey, the blood draining from their otherwise healthy faces as people he had looked up to and sought refuge in for the past year wilt and wither before his very eyes, like mountains crumbling to their foundations. Andrew’s face seems drained of all blood as well, pale and ashen and haggard like a decaying corpse as he bends over at the waist and braces his trembling hands against the floor.

Only Eugene cranes his neck to look up at him, squinting and fighting the exhaustion that threatens to ebb away at his weaning conscious as he grinds out. “ _ Snap her out of it _ .”

Varian looks at Andrew, contemplating it. If he waited for Andrew to die, he would have to risk all of their deaths too. And despite being beguiled by sheer hatred at the man for taking advantage of him at his lowest, for his eerie smiles and meaningless pats on the shoulders for which Varian had yearned the world, for his seamless temper, for nearly  _ killing _ him, for his  _ stupid _ quiz time questions-Varian will not be making anyone pay today.

Andrew could pay his price to the monarchy he was so intent on emulating, the system he had dreamt of destroying in favor of an equally cruel and equally ruthless Saporia of his own. But Varian wouldn’t forget that Andrew, like him, like his severed arm, like his scarred face, was the product of a machine that needed fixing, one part in a broken machine that broke all who entered it, a machine meant to mend problems and instead marred  _ people _ . Varian doesn’t have reason to believe in Rapunzel-but he  _ can _ have faith that she will add her input, that she will think of things differently, that she may even try, with him, to remake and resurrect a machine that fixed problems rather than people, that would look at people who could have been him or Andrew before they became the shells they are today. After that, Andrew could pay his dues in this life, a  _ painful _ punishment-and  _ Varian himself would make sure of it _ . But he would not be the king who had dumped his dishevelled body in the courtyard, he would not be the princess who had left him in chains, he would not be the bad-goatee man who had stood silently by and watched him get hounded on by an entire kingdom. He would wait, and he would think, and he would listen...and  _ then _ he would act. He will try to be better-because he knows he can be, for he deserves better. Everyone who entered that machine did. Everyone whose limb was severed by that screw or whose mind was spasmed with that rod did.

So Varian musters the last of his strength and looks to the people who he is doing this for. He looks at the people he had called his friends-Andrew and the Saporians, who he had considered his own family… Andrew, who he had called a brother, whose chest he had sobbed into as the broken machine creaked and crackled in the aftermath of its destruction, whose vest he had clutched as the endlessly dark night sky loomed over their crouched figures-the man who had been using him, shutting him down swiftly and keeping him in place as he sought to be the very thing he despised, the man who had sought to force others to bear things he wished he hadn’t bore himself. He looks at bad-goatee man's pained face, resigned as he ducks his forehead against the ground.

Finally, he looks at the person he never thought he would look in the eye again. “Rapunzel? Princess! Please...snap out of it!” He treads closer and calls over the sizzle and hiss of her fiery hair, the woman’s head still turned downwards and her eyes focused blankly at a spot in space.

He doesn’t see bad-goatee man’s face rise in alarm and apprehension, doesn’t hear the choked cries to get his attention as he inhales deeply and reaches his hesitant,  _ remaining _ hand out towards the woman who, though he still despises, can maybe, just  _ maybe _ be a source of his trust again-enable him to try and learn  _ how to trust again _ .

Varian’s spare hand is mere centimeters away from the burning wisps of air curling up from Rapunzel’s limp form, and he feels a sudden heat begin to crawl its way to his fingertips-

Only to be interrupted with a loud “NO!” as the bad-goatee man lunges forth between Varian and Rapunzel, one hand pushing the boy away roughly and the other accidentally landing on Rapunzel’s shoulder in the process as the first of the fumes begin to eat away through his gloves and at his flesh- _ his left hand _ .

A pained, raw scream floods Varian’s ears, but for the first time in what feels like a long time, they aren’t his own...even after torturign his friends as he has just done. The boy stares in shock, dazed and bewildered as the man instantly flinches away from the burning girl with a burning hand and a burning rage, and  _ takes his punishment for him _ -

“EUGENE!” He hears Rapunzel’s scream, still distant and raw to his numb ears. The lively color of her eyes and face flood back in an instant, the golden sheen of her hair returning and the darkness in her roots and in her eyes and in her being abruptly vanishing as she reaches out to him.

He watches the man as he quickly crumbles to his knees and bends at the waist, clutching desperately at his elbow for purchase as the steaming glimmer crawls up until it has all but shredded his forearm and left nothing but a dark, crisp, withered object that resembles a hand in its wake. 

When the screams finally stop, when the man gasps for breath and shudders in its aftermath, Rapunzel’s face is streaked with large tears as she anchors herself to his shoulders and swathes him in her hair, trying desperately to heal it, to revive some part of it as she has before.  _ They had done this before. _ Her choked voice grinds out the healing incantation from memory, her small hands shakily grabbing onto the man's burnt one and clasping it against her scalp, tears cascading endlessly down her cheeks and fracturing her verses as her hair remains unresponsive, lifeless as the flesh on her beloved's arm.

Varian breathes heavily-they all do, trying to collect themselves in the aftermath of the catastrophe. The Saporians all lie unconscious, still reeling from the effects of experiencing the incantation first hand in their unprepared states.

“Why-why did you do that?” Varian splutters in disbelief, surprised to no end when Rapunzel and the man stare back up at him with no malice, not accusation, no question in their eyes.

“Because you’re a good kid, Varian.” The man simply replies, a warm and ready smile gracing his lips. They are so unlike Broth-unlike  _ Andrew’s _ . The eyes are a soft, light brown, glimmering with kindness and devoid of anger even as his blackened arm rests in his tormented beloved’s hands. “You’re a good kid, with great intentions, and you deserve better than to suffer alone…better than to bear it all alone.” His spare hand reaches out certainly, clasping onto Varian’s own and intertwining their fingers. Varian blinks at it curiously, the words slithering into his mind and pulsating through the blur of his vision at the sudden whiplash of the less-cold, less-dark memory resting peacefully somewhere in the back of his scarred mind—

_ Eugene’s face, before the lie. “Look, Varian, I think you’re a good kid, a smart kid with great intentions.” _

_ Rapunzel’s face, before the lie. “I haven’t forgotten our promise, Varian. Just...give me until my dad returns. Everything is going to be alright. I promise.” _

And despite the other events attached to the memory, a strange spike of warmth and elation grows in Varian’s chest at the fond memory-not the kind for which he would latch onto anyone and everyone showing him the barest slivers of kindness. The one of pure admiration and joy he had felt upon seeing his idol for the first time. The anticipation, the true hops and skips in his step as he led the unsuspecting man through tunnels he had shown no one else, named solutions after him as he gazed blankly and tried talking sense into him. The invigorating excitement as he bowed before the woman, waved towards his machine and she gazed with knowing interest, a passion that paralleled his own. The kind of friendship he had always yearned for, when he saw the man and woman so readily speaking to him, so happily praising him, so genuinely caring for him.

The man and woman who had left him alone in his time of need, like everyone else at the time. The man and woman who had properly talked to him first. The man who had now been the first to put his hand forward- _ literally _ -to help him in his time of need  _ now _ , and the woman whose magic had both ruined and saved their lives.

He very much liked that woman.

And he very much liked that man, too.

Varian scrunches his face. “Eugene?” He finally says, rummaging through his memory and for once, not entirely detesting what he found. It tastes familiar on his tongue, for he had heard the name much fewer times than really any other, but it beats the label of 'bad-goatee man’ anyway.

The man-Eugene-blinks confusedly, before cautiously answering. “Yes?”

“Eugene.” Varian repeats, clearer than before, choosing to embrace it rather than experiment with it. His voice peaks again, something shrill and unfounded beginning to creep its way into his words. He sniffles, shoulders trembling and lips tightening, looking at the burned hand, to the two pairs of eyes aflame with compassion and sympathy, their disheveled hair, their pale faces, the blood that he- _ he _ had spilled, staining  _ their _ clothes…

He has become so used to crying on his own that he doesn’t notice the first of the tears silently spilling down his cheeks in burning trails. He has become so used to crying on his own that he doesn’t expect for the two to look at him with such concern and instantly crawl their ways over, flanking him on both sides and wrapping both pairs of arms around him, the smell of Eugene’s dreadfully burnt hand still brushing against his skin and the feeling of Rapunzel’s dreadfully golden hair still encompassing him like a blanket, a cocoon. He has become so used to the cold and uncertainty that he doesn’t stop himself when they so readily offer him warmth and protection and comfort, burrowing his head against the junction between them and relishing in how they embrace him tighter, stronger,  _ better _ than he has ever felt.

“I’m so  _ sorry _ .” He croaks through his tears, his tongue too used to uttering the familiar words. “Fuck, I’m so, so  _ sorry-” _

“ _ We’re _ so sorry,  _ too _ .” Eugene hushes, patting him carefully along his back before noticing his flinch and choosing to run his hands through his scalp instead, allowing him to sink against the unfamiliar sensation. 

“ _Gosh_ , we’re _so_ _sorry_ we left you like this, Varian.” Rapunzel sobs, squeezing him tightly in an unfamiliar apology and an unfamiliar hug and an unfamiliar scent.

Varian doesn’t say anything more for a long time-neither of them do, and when their marred, ashen faces finally do look up, it is because one of the Saporians begin to twitch. They wordlessly gather them, lifting and tying and pushing to the best of their abilities until they can safely stock them away behind bars. They lean on each other for support in different ways and at different times- Rapunzel trying to limp with her injured ankle, Eugene trying not to move his burnt arm, and Varian trying in vain to use his remaining hand to salvage his prosthetic.

There are people who eventually come rushing in now that the castle is unguarded and the kingdom is no longer in danger-Coronan citizenry and the mind wiped royals. When they look at them expectantly, giving Varian a collectively questioning stare, some scrutinizing and others horrified,, Rapunzel only spares them a tired shake of the head, quietly pulling Varian behind her protectively and ordering them to send for medical help.

And as the three of them wait together, the dawn of a new day trickles into the once-dark room, splattering across the once-dark walls, recovering from the pains of a once-dark night. Varian basks in it, basks in the blinding gold of the sunshine welcoming a new beginning free of masked men and vengeful kings and breathing down his neck. He basks in it, even moreso when Rapunzel suggests that they can use the incantation to free his father. He basks in it, even moreso when Eugene teases him about his prosthetic.

“I can make one for you too. Only, one especially suited for the likes of Flynn Rider.” He offers to Eugene, before turning to Rapunzel. “And I can still help fix the throne room-I’ve invented things to help clean up quickly.” The pride in his voice fades, replaced with solemn gratitude as he beams at him. “It’s the least you both deserve, for what you’ve done for me.”

The man pats the back of his hand carefully, and Rapunzel smiles. “You really don’t have to do that, Varian. And don’t thank us yet. We still have work to do, and…things to  _ properly _ talk about.” She ruffles Varian's hair then, leaning back against Eugene’s shoulder and staring at his burnt hand wistfully.

“Well, I’m going to have to come with you and offer some  _ actual _ adult supervision and instruction.” Eugene remarks to Varian, countering the boy's reluctant smile with a teasing grin of his own-confidently,  _ calmly _ , as though his scorched hand wasn't displayed for the world to see, as though he didn't feel Rapunzel's intent, remorseful eyes crawling up his shriveled forearm. “So my prosthetic doesn’t end up looking like  _ yours _ .” He points to the mangled piece of metal, somewhat crude and not-too-sharp after what it had been through.

Varian nudges Eugene’s unburnt hand, smiling at him assuringly, truly. “ _ I still have the better goatee _ .” He whispers, ignoring the man's questioning expression as a new sun fully rises into the truly bright sky, a truly new king and queen flank his sides, a new doctor appears poised with true concern and care, a truly new life outside of the dark bars and dark rooms and dark machines begins, and the beginnings of the help he truly needs finally arrives.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> When I'm less tired I'll probably talk more about symbolism but hnh this is it for now. Hope that went fine! <3
> 
> I'm working on my other stories and realizing I haven't posted my past drafts so I've got that going for me, lol.


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